Legacy
by Elfpen
Summary: They say that imitation is the greatest reflection of a man's legacy. But when Will unwittingly imitates the legacy of his father, it costs him more than he has to lose, and Halt bears the survivor's guilt of two generations of martyrs.
1. Again

Title: Legacy

Author: Elfpen

Summary: They say that imitation is the greatest reflection of a man's legacy. But when Will unwittingly imitates the legacy of his father, it costs him more than he has to lose, and Halt bears the survivor's guilt of two generations of martyrs.

A/N: An idea that popped into my head while listening to 'Into the West' from the LotR RotK soundtrack. Split up into micro chapters to keep things interesting. Enjoy!

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**Again**

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It wasn't surprising that Picta had launched the attack onto Araluen's northern border. After all, the two nations had been clashing for over three hundred years, and showed no signs of letting go of their rivalry anytime soon. So when Araluen's northern border defenses were weakened in the dead of winter, the Scotti had taken their chance and sent all the kilt-clad, war-painted, sword-swinging berserkers that they could spare at Araluen's snow-coated north.

It wasn't all that surprising that the Araluen Ranger Corps had known about the impending attack weeks before it had happened, either. It was common knowledge that the rangers had eyes and ears everywhere in the country, with particular attention to their homeland's borders.

The real surprise of the whole event was the sheer intensity of the battle. It was, all things considered, an easy win for the Araluens. They had the homeland advantage, a strategic leg-up with the Rangers on their side, and a thorough knowledge of the enduring, unchanging tactics of the Scotti. However, a battle, all variables aside, was a battle nonetheless. As such, it was an ugly affair. Blood was shed, men were killed, lives were lost, and sacrifices were made.

But for all the truth in such a statement, there was one truth that had to prevail: such tragedy of war could never claim the life of a young man like him. Anyone, but not him. Not Will.

At least, that's what Halt tried to tell himself as he cradled Will's head in his lap. It shouldn't be like this; it couldn't. Something had gone terribly, horribly wrong. In a single instant, the life of one man and the world of another had been pushed to the edge of oblivion, where they now dangled precariously with little hope of rescue.

If anything, it should have been Halt lying there on the ground, blood-stained snow chilling his sides. It almost had been. Not ten minutes ago, Halt had been fighting for his life amongst a swarm of Scotti swordsman. Then, out of nowhere, a mounted crossbowman had come charging out of the brush, his sights aimed at Halt's heart. Halt hadn't stood a chance. Then, inexplicably, Will had come careening in on Tug, and before Halt could even recognize who it was, he had drawn and shot an arrow straight to its target. The crossbowman had fallen from his horse to the snow, lifeless.

But not before he'd landed a steel-tipped bolt deep into Will's gut.

Halt tried not to look at the wound now. He knew from a glance that it was more than serious. Very few survived such grievous wounds. Will was an amazingly strong young man, but he was only a man. Halt lowered his head, not attempting to hide the tears that flew freely down his cheeks.

"Will," He managed an authoritative tone towards his barely conscious former pupil, "don't you _dare _die on me. What will I ever tell your wife?"

Will looked blearily up at Halt and tried to smile. It was a pathetic attempt soiled by the grimace that forced itself onto his face. "I'll try." He said. "But Halt, if… If I don't… Tell Alyss I love her. And… And Daniel." He took a shaky breath. "Take care of him. I can't-" Whatever he was about to say was broken off as he coughed roughly, crimson trickling out of his mouth. He let out a pained scream, and fell harder against Halt. The older ranger could only hold him and pretend that he wasn't shaking with repressed sobs.

"Will, don't say that. Don't do this to me. I can't do this again – not again - I just can't." Halt's voice was uncharacteristically weak and transparent, all usual composure gone. _Again. _For a split second, Halt found himself back twenty-eight years in time, and it was not Will's face that he was knelt over, but rather the face of Daniel, Will's father. As soon as it came, the déjà vu left, and Halt was back in the present, with Will lying before him, his breathing drawn shallow and ragged by his injury. Both father and son had asked the same query of him – the last request of a dying man. _Not again. _

"I won't let you die, Will. I _won't." _Halt said.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Halt," Will mustered out, "Must… Must be a family thing." He tried to smile. All of a sudden, his breathing thinned out further, and he was taking so many quick, shallow breaths that he was close to hyperventilating. "Halt… I Don't… Time…"

"No." Halt found himself saying. "No!" Will was fading fast, he could tell. A renewed shot of adrenaline flew through his veins. Halt whipped his head around towards the cluster of tents not too far off. After the battle had ended, most knights and commanders had gathered there to regroup.

"Horace!" He yelled. No response. He gathered his breath, and with every ounce of panic and agony that he felt inside, managed a louder voice. "HORACE!"


	2. Guarantee

**Guarantee**

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Back at the camp, Horace had been standing in a ring of other knights, assessing their losses, when he heard the cry. He only barely recognized it as Halt, and the alarm in his voice sent a startling chill racing down the warrior's spine. He turned quickly, and in the distance, he could see two figures outlined against the white of the snow, one prone, one keeling. All around them, the snow was colored crimson. A cold hand of fear clenched around his heart.

"Oh God, no."

He didn't hear the commanders' calls of question as he raced headlong out to the distant figures. His vision swam surreally and his heart thumped deafeningly in his ears as he came upon the scene. He was suddenly on his knees, running hands gingerly over Will's damaged torso, trying to make sense of it all.

"What happened?" His voice cracked harshly. Before Halt could answer, Horace shook his head. "No, it doesn't matter. He needs a surgeon. Now." Horace glanced at Halt when he said it, and he felt his resolve slip. Halt was crying. No, not crying – Halt was bawling. It was too much to handle. If Halt couldn't keep his grip, who could? Horace swallowed the lump forming in his throat and slid his arms beneath Will to lift the now unconscious ranger against him. He rose.

"Come on, Halt." He said once. Then, he was jogging back towards the camp, forcing his muscles to keep steady. Halt was right behind him. Horace blinked back tears as he felt Will's warm blood seep into the fabric of his shirt.

They came upon the camp, and the first faces to turn and see them registered pure shock.

"Malcolm, the healer – where is he?" Horace asked. The shocked faces said nothing.

"_WHERE IS HE?"_

One man pointed off towards the edge of camp. Horace abruptly turned and headed in the direction indicated.

"Malcolm!" He turned his head around, looking desperately for the small healer. "Malcolm!" Horace called for him again. He couldn't come soon enough.

The small man appeared from behind a tent, and couldn't help the small gasp that escaped when he recognized the face of the injured body lying in Horace's arms.

"Oh, good Lord. Get him inside. Quickly, now!" Malcolm hurried suddenly, opening the tent flap for Horace as he rushed Will in and carefully placed him on the long wooden table there.

The rest was all commotion. Voices, spreading the word. Malcolm, giving orders. Halt refusing to be ushered out. Rumors spreading like wildfire. In a daze of confusion and hurry, Horace found himself being pushed away from the scene like a piece of wood adrift in the sea. Still too shocked for words, he looked blindly down at his sleeve, now stained red, and his hands, which were slick from Will's blood. Something in him turned grotesquely, and he had to force his way away to the edge of the forest where he wretched violently, his stomach turning out whatever he had eaten previously. After a few moments, he had calmed himself somewhat. He grabbed a handful of snow and washed his hands before standing shakily to his feet. He started back towards camp. He was met by an unexpected person.

"Horace! There you are!" It was a feminine voice, wrought with anxiety and panic. "What's happened? Everyone's saying that Will's been gravely hurt, that you found him and-" And that's where Cassandra cut off, when she caught sight of Horace's blood-stained shirt. There was no cut to the fabric, so she knew it was not his blood. Her face paled. "…It's… It's true?"

His face said it all.

She put both hands to her face, hiding tears. "Oh, no…" Was all she could muster. He could hear her muttering to herself, and was going to try to say something, but she spoke first. "I… Horace, come on." She was shaking with fear, and he could hear her tears through her voice. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Wordlessly, she led him away to a larger tent, which he vaguely recognized as the royal residence tent. It was a large affair with small luxuries, but overall practical and compact. It was tall enough that he didn't have to duck as he entered. He protested against invading her and her father's privacy, but she stayed resolutely silent, and so he had to comply as she led him to a chair and began cleaning his face, neck and hands with a damp cloth. He realized somewhere through the process that taking action through helping him was Cassandra's way of keeping herself sane while the healers worked with Will.

After she was satisfied, she'd gone and found him a fresh shirt, turning around momentarily to let him change. After that, she'd taken his old shirt and tossed it wordlessly into the fire. Bloody clothes were of no use to anyone.

She searched him for any wounds. She found none that needed tending. She'd given him water. He'd refused food. She had nothing else to do. Her hands were shaking now, and she rose to pace around the tent.

Horace simply watched her, a deep sadness in his eyes.

"He's not dead, you know." Horace told her, after a while. Cassandra paused in her pacing for a moment to listen, but didn't respond at right away. After a few silent moments, she let out a single sniffle, and turned and ran headlong into Horace, burying her face into his chest. Only partially surprised, Horace paused for a moment before he wrapped his arms around her comfortingly.

"Why him?" She mumbled into his new shirt. "He's been through so much already, why does it always have to be him? His son's not even a year old…" She moaned through ragged sobs. "If he dies while I'm helping my father command, Horace… I'll never be able to live with myself." She dissolved into uncontrollable tears.

Horace suddenly understood. This was Cassandra's first time in the thick of a battle. True, she had not done any fighting herself, but she had spent a considerable time staying up late into the night with her father and his commanders and rangers planning the plans of attack. Now that the assault she had helped plan had lead to the mortal injury of a very dear friend, she felt as though she was responsible.

Horace's face contorted oddly as tears threatened to spill over his own cheeks. He felt just as guilty as Cassandra did. Not only had he also helped set battle plans, but he had been out there – out on the field. He should have seen something, done something. But he hadn't. He hadn't even known when his friend was shot. He subconsciously tightened his arms around the princess, somewhat protectively, and leaned down to bury his face in her hair as the tears began to fall.

"I know, Cassie." His voice shook. "He'll live. He'll live." He was saying it to himself as much as he was to her. "He has to."

But there was no guarantee for that. There never was.

They held each other tighter.


	3. Promise

**Promise**

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**

He'd heard about it before he saw it. Gilan was deaf to all others as he blundered through the maze of tents, not knowing where exactly he was headed but knowing exactly where he wanted to be; where he needed to be. The only sounds he heard were the beating of his own heart and the sighing of his own breath. Ghostly echoes wisped past his ears as others called out to him, but he didn't heed them. Then, he came upon the tent of the healer, and his breath caught - even his heartbeat was silenced.

A sickly, eerie ringing filled his ears as his vision fixated on the gruesome wound attached to the body of a man he recognized. But the pale, lifeless face that lay out on that table was not the man he knew – it was but a ghost, a nightmarish shadow of Will Treaty – a distortion of the way things should be. This truly was a nightmare. A terrible, hellish nightmare. He closed his eyes, wishing with every fiber of his being that he would wake up from this horror. He opened his eyes again.

He never woke up.

His hearing returned as though he was floating to the surface of a lake. Vaguely, he heard yelling. The voices grew louder until he broke through the surface of the water, and suddenly he could hear every shout with clarity. Suddenly, he was forced into the reality of what was happening, and he registered the fact that the small healer, Malcolm, was currently trying to wrench Halt away from Will's cold body.

"No! He can't be dead!" Halt was crying out, "He can't! He can't be dead!"

"Halt, stop it!" Malcolm was saying. "He's not dead! Will's _not _dead!" Malcolm grabbed a hold of one of Halt's hands, and managed to straighten out to of his forefingers and plant them against Will's neck. "Feel that, Halt? Can you? It's a pulse. He's not dead, do you hear me?" Malcolm's voice quieted somewhat as Halt calmed down. "Will is not dead."

With that revelation, Halt stopped struggling and instead slumped over in strange mix of relief and agony. He began teetering back and forth, and Malcolm looked up to Gilan for assistance. The younger ranger bolted to move a chair under Halt to catch him as he fell. The healer went back to work. Halt kept his fingers against Will's jugular, his every hope riding on the weak pulse that moved beneath the skin.

"He can't die, Gilan," Halt quietly told his younger friend without looking at him. "He can't. I promised his father. I promised them _all. _He can't die. I _promised." _

Gilan just looked at him in sheer and complete sympathy. He'd learned the story of Will's father only just a few years ago, but understood the weight of guilt that Halt carried with him. Halt had promised Will's father. He had promised Alyss. He had promised young Daniel. He had promised himself.

And now, that promise was kept intact by a few drops of blood, pulsating through the veins of a man half-dead. Nothing could change that.

Because whether the pulse would continue on beating or cease its rhythm forevermore, he had promised.

And nothing could change that.


	4. Fight

**Fight**

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Malcolm's brow was furrowed deep in concentration and worry as he worked to save the Will's quickly fading life. He'd lost a large amount of blood already, and was still bleeding. Malcolm had already removed the largest and most dangerous pieces of shrapnel, but Will's body was still reeling from the huge injury. There was no way that the blood could be replaced quickly enough – not the way things were going. Pulling out all stops, Malcolm had poured a blood-clotting agent straight into the wound to stop the excessive internal bleeding.

If it didn't work, it would kill him. If it clotted any major arteries that had been ruptured, it would kill him. But it was a risk that Malcolm had to take. He hoped against hope that his gamble would pay off. It had to work. It had to. He looked over at Halt, and had to look away after a moment.

He'd seen fathers upset over the loss of a son before, but never before had the healer witnessed something quite like the sheer agony that Halt fell victim to over Will's mortality. Halt had been holding his fingers against Will's rough pulse for hours, now. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he said nothing, but his hand rested against his former apprentice without fail.

"He's not dead. He's not dead." Malcolm had heard Halt chanting to himself more than once.

If he let Halt down now, after the man had gone through so much to reassure himself of Will's life… Malcolm couldn't bear the thought. He looked on as Will's wounds began to cease bleeding as the agent did its work. Malcolm brushed back the hair from Will's pale features and looked into the lifeless face.

"If you can hear me somehow, Will… Fight. By God, fight this wound and get back home alive. I don't think this man could bear it if you don't."

And that was all he could say. The rest was up to Will.


	5. Dying

**Dying**

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He hurt all over. Inside, outside, up, down and all around, every muscle, tendon, nerve and bone ached terribly. The pain as a whole seemed to be focused on his gut, which felt like someone had stabbed him with a red-hot stick. Will found himself wondering what had happened that merited so much pain. In addition to the pain, he felt incredibly weak. He didn't try to move, but by some perception, he knew that he wouldn't be able to even if he did try. His throat was terribly dry, and judging by the stiffness of his back muscles, he had been lying here for quite some time. Something hard dug up into his back.

"…Hasn't shown any change from yesterday…" A quiet voice broke through to his hearing. He thought he recognized it, but couldn't quite tell, since the speaker was whispering. The person, whoever it was, was somewhere off to his left. Now that he was paying attention, he thought he could hear some other things, too. Swaying trees. Horses. Flapping canvas.

Where in the world was he?

He tried to remember how he'd ended up where he was, but couldn't. He vaguely remembered riding Tug sometime recently, and briefly wondered where his faithful friend was now. He also seemed to remember a great deal of snow. After that, all he could remember was the fitful sleep he'd fallen in to. In fact, it was the best, most restful sleep that he could ever remember having in his life – much more enjoyable than the rude awakening of a body filled with pain.

"…Don't know what will happen…" The voice was talking in his range of hearing again. He tried to listen, but could only make out a few words. Happen? Happen to what? Was there something that was _supposed _to happen? Speaking of which, why was he here in the first place? He wracked his brain, trying to remember. He remembered that Halt was there, and Horace, too. Speaking of which, where were those two? He hadn't seen them for some time – had they gone off somewhere without him? Hmm… There was something about Scotti… Oh, yes! The Scotti were going to attack the north border. Well, that would explain the snow. But why on earth was he lying here, too weak to move?

"…Could die any day now. I'm sorry." The voice broke through again. At this, Will became concerned. Die? Someone was dying? How horrible! Who on earth was dying? Did Will know them? Were they a friend? He tried to think of anyone he knew that was ill or hurt or close to death, but no names came to mind. Then, a thought struck him.

Was _he _dying?

The idea was rather morbid, but it explained a great deal. For instance, why he couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, and the incredible pain that throbbed through his entire body. It also explained why that sleep he'd been having had been so fitful – he'd been on death's doorstep. The thought made him shiver. But it also raised several questions. For one, what had happened that drove him so close to death? He could remember, but he tried anyway, searching and re-searching his memory for any recollection of any event that led up to this point. There had been a battle with the Scotti, he'd already remembered, and so it was reasonable enough to conclude that he'd been injured in the fight. But what, specifically, had he been doing that nearly killed him?

And then, as if from some sort of forgotten dream, Will remembered lying in the snow, Halt leaning over him. He somehow remembered that Halt had been crying. He'd never seen the other ranger cry before – he wasn't sure if he'd ever want to see that again. He remembered asking Halt to take care of his family, and that Halt replied with something along the lines of _'Not again,'. _It took a moment of thought now before Will realized with some shock that Halt was referring to what Will's own father had asked of the ranger all those years ago. _'It must be a family thing,' _his own words rang in his head. His shallow breath froze in his lungs. For Halt to go through that all over again must have been awful. Realization dawned on Will that he had been unwittingly copying his father's legacy – to die saving another man; to save Halt.

Suddenly, with new resolve, Will knew that he had to get to Halt and let the man know that he was alright. Just because Will was stupid enough to go out and get himself killed didn't mean that his old master should have to suffer for it. Halt had already fulfilled the wishes of one dying man – no need to repeat that whole scenario with the man's son. But, annoyingly, Will was still stuck lying there, without enough energy or strength to even open his eyes.

Unexpectedly at that moment, something came to lay at his neck, where he knew his pulse would be. His heart leapt when he heard Halt speak.

"First your father, and now you. Will, stay with me, if you can."

_I'm not dead! _Will wanted to say. The despair in Halt's voice tugged at Will's heart, and he just couldn't bear to know that Halt thought he was going to die. Drawing on every reserve of energy that he could find, Will drew a deep breath, and spoke.


	6. Legacy

**Legacy**

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Halt sighed into his hands as he sat by the dying campfire. It had been a week since Will had been shot. He'd been unconscious since the first day, and shown hardly any sure signs of improvement. His wounds had began to heal, thanks to Malcolm's ministrations, but the probability that Will was going to wake up dwindled day by day. Halt had been mulling over nothing else since that day, even after they'd started heading back to Castle Araluen two days ago. They were nearly there, now, but had been making slow progress over the past days, weighed down by the injured and impaired soldiers. Will was given something of special attention, because he was the most critically injured warrior that had survived the battle. Halt had personally made sure that his former apprentice was always looked after.

But there was only so much that he, Malcolm, or anyone else could do. Blood could be replenished with time. Wounds could heal with medicine. But some healing relied on the person's will to live, and while Halt thought that Will had everything to live for, he wasn't sure if the other man would come through. Each passing day was another sliver of doubt. Many would have left him for dead already, but Halt refused to let down his hopes until the pulse that he felt everyday at Will's neck ceased entirely. Halt tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire, and sighed heavily again, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes.

Malcolm approached him from a nearby tent. He sat down next to the ranger, and waited a moment until he spoke.

"Will is still unconscious. He hasn't shown any change from yesterday, Halt. I… I'm not sure how long this will last."

"What do you mean?" Halt's voice was weary.

Malcolm sighed. "Well, he could stay like this for another few days, maybe another few weeks… But if he doesn't wake up soon, Halt, he may never will."

"When do you think he will… Pass?" Halt managed to ask.

"I can't say precisely. I don't know what will happen." He paused, and then looked at Halt with a heavy heart and sad eyes. "I can't say exactly, Halt, but… He could die any day now. I'm sorry."

The healer waited for a few moments, but after Halt said nothing and turned away from the small healer, Malcolm rose respectfully and turned to his tent.

Halt sat there silently for several moments, and had to swipe away the few tears that had appeared on his cheeks. Wearily, he rose from his seat and walked quietly to where Will was laid out on a bedroll, in the middle of a small tent. He knelt down by his apprentice and simply looked at him for a moment. The whole thing was tragic, really. Will's own father had died saving the very same man that Will had died for – him. Halt's heart weighed down with extreme guilt and pain as he considered the thought. But Will wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway. Halt placed a light hand on Will's neck, focusing on the light pulse that flowed through his jugular.

"First your father, and now you. Will, stay with me if you can." Halt told the unresponsive man. He'd taken to talking to Will over the past few days, though he wasn't sure if he was heard. And of course, now as ever, Will made no response beyond his sickly, shallow breathing. Halt sighed to himself and closed his eyes sadly.

As he did, a raspy moan interrupted him.

His eyes shot open, and he looked down at his former apprentice, and he could have sworn that Will was breathing a bit harder than he had been before, and that his lips had moved.

"Will?" Halt asked, hoping against hope.

"Mmmnghnndnn." Came the whimpered response.

Halt's heart was racing with excitement. Will was alive? "What was that?" He asked, putting a hand to Will's arm. The man's skin was considerably less cold than it had been before. He saw Will swallow, and then, to his utter relief, surprise, and joy, Will opened his eyes just barely to look at his master.

" 'M not gonna die." Will mumbled out.

Halt was beyond words. Will was alive. Will was _alive! _And awake!

"Where've you been, Halt?" Will slurred through cracked lips, "You left me for a minute there. Awfully rude ta leave a man like that, you know. But issalright. Wassa nice sleep, really. But I thought you'd miss me too much. Never could admit it, but I know you like having me around to annoy you."

Halt just looked at him, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "You're alive. You're really alive." Was all he could say.

" 'Course I am." Will told him. "I can't really do everything that my father did, can I? I mean, if everyone copied their father's legacy exactly, the world would be an incredibly predictable place. Besides, if I were to copy my _real _dad's legacy, I'd end up something like you, Halt."

Halt just looked at him, and with tears streaming down his face, bent over to wrap his arms around Will in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. "You scared me, son." He said shakily.

Will grimaced. "Sorry 'bout that. Try not to do it again. Rather painful, really." He ventured to move his neck just slightly to the side, to look around. "You don't think you could get me some water, do you?"

Halt hugged him tighter with a tear-stained face, laughing for the first time in weeks.

* * *

Malcolm had been the first to find out. After that, the news had spread quickly – Will Treaty was awake! He would live! Horace, Gilan and Halt had stayed with Will in his tent as long as they could, and Will quite honestly got tired of their constant nannying after the first few days.

It had been late at night when Cassandra had received the news, but she'd marched over to Will's tent as soon as she'd heard, bed hair, nightgown and all, and planted a huge kiss on his cheek before fretting over and doting on him like a concerned mother. Will had accepted all her attention without complaint, taking the most amusement out of the jealous glares that he received from Horace. Of course, Cassandra would dote on anyone who'd been through what had happened to Will, but Horace couldn't help but be a bit envious for all the attention. If it didn't hurt so much, Will would have laughed at the fierce glances that Horace shot over at him.

But by far the most rewarding and most enjoyable welcome he received was when Will had arrived at Castle Araluen, limping along as Halt and Gilan helped him through the doors, and, wonder of all wonders, there had stood Alyss, holding their small, one-year-old son, Daniel. Tears were streaming down his face as his wife hugged and kissed him, and as his son latched onto his neck. Briefly, as he continued through the hall with his family at his side, Will glanced back at Halt.

As the older man nodded steadily once, Will thought he caught the glimmer of a tear in his eye.

A man's fate may have been guided by the legacy left by his father, but many times, it depended on which father's legacy a man chose to follow after. As Will looked back at Halt, he knew he'd chosen well.

The son smiled. His father smiled back.


End file.
